The Little White Bird; or adventures in Kensington gardens

"Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation from his mother: ""I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me,"" and I always reply in some such words as these: ""Dear madam, I decline."" And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I have no desire to meet the woman.       ""Come this time, father,"" he urged lately, ""for it is her birthday, and she is twenty-six,"" which is so great an age to David, that I think he fears she cannot last much longer.       ""Twenty-six, is she, David?"" I replied. ""Tell her I said she looks more.""       I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six, which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place called my home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when I alighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we went away together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprised to find her there; it was as if we had been married for years and parted for a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to carry.       Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom I have never in my life addressed one word, she would droop her head and raise it bravely, to imply that I make her very sad but very proud, and she would be wishful to lend me her absurd little pocket handkerchief. And then, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle her, for it is not the face of David's mother that I see in my dreams."